


the most wonderful time of the year

by crooked



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 18:14:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crooked/pseuds/crooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas in Paris and the snow on the ground isn't the only thing that's fresh and new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the most wonderful time of the year

**Author's Note:**

> a response to [orestesfasting](http://pylad.es/post/58191214812/do-you-ever-think-about-enjolras-and-grantaire)'s adorably sweet prompt, originally posted at my [tumblr](http://iron-mans.tumblr.com/).

Much like the fresh, powdery snow that crunched beneath their shoes, this was still so new.

Enjolras wasn't even exactly sure how they'd arrived this point. Grantaire had shown up at a meeting one day, tagging along with Bahorel. The two of them sparred at the same gym, apparently. Enjolras had noticed the dark head of curls and the nose that had been broken a time or two, the face that wore an expression of incredulity from the second he walked in the room. But it was the way that Grantaire had audibly scoffed less than a minute into Enjolras' remarks that really got his attention. From that moment on, Grantaire became a strange kind of adversary, one that smiled as he tore down arguments and seemed to enjoy the fights. Stranger still? Enjolras began to enjoy them himself.

Maybe 'enjoy' was a strong choice of words, but he thrived on the rush arguing with Grantaire provided. Oh, he was frustrated with him more than anything because Grantaire could push his buttons like nobody else. But Enjolras slowly came to realize that was part of the appeal of it all. Grantaire challenged him, openly and frequently, and Enjolras had met few others who did. He sparked Enjolras' passion when he forced him to defend his views and in his own way helped bolster some of his arguments. It became addictive, that heated back-and-forth routine that developed between them, and when Grantaire occasionally didn't show up Enjolras found himself missing him. Missing the _arguing_ , he often corrected himself, though he knew there wasn't really a difference.

And then one day it was just the two of them left, their friends having departed because of morning lectures or early shifts or a rather promising prospect (thanks for sharing, Courfeyrac). Combeferre had given Enjolras an oddly knowing look when he'd departed, one that he didn't quite understand until later. Grantaire didn't relent on his latest point even when it was clear the meeting was over, and Enjolras gave him as good as he got. At one point, Enjolras stood and threw his hands in the air, declaring Grantaire impossible and stubborn and the most apathetic, non-believer he'd ever met. Grantaire had just leaned back in his chair, looking unbelievably smug and pleased with himself for pushing Enjolras to that point, and he shrugged. And something — he still doesn't know exactly what — compelled Enjolras to lean over Grantaire's chair, hands gripping the wooden arms, and do his very best to kiss that look right off his face.

After that, he couldn't _stop_ kissing him. And now, just a few weeks later, this. Walking down the street, huddled close together, hands clasped and shoulders bumping as they moved. Undeniably a couple: to their friends, to the strangers they passed, to all of Paris. It was cold and their wool coats and knit scarves kept most of the chill out, but the frosty air bit at their faces and hands, hands which Enjolras refused to put gloves on because he liked the feel of Grantaire's palm flush against his own.

As the first light snowflakes fell earlier in the afternoon, they'd made love, lazy and unrushed, in Grantaire's bed. Enjolras had been more than content to stay stretched out on the mattress like a cat, Grantaire wrapped around his body, his head on Enjolras' chest and his fingers drawing patterns against Enjolras' hip. But Grantaire hadn't let them linger very long in the trapped warmth of the tangled blankets and sheets. He lifted his head and suggested they go out and look at the Christmas lights, and his face had lit up so sweetly that Enjolras hadn't any choice but to agree.

Paris, the famed City of Light, was never anything less than beautiful. But at Christmastime it was simply resplendent. Enjolras and Grantaire didn't mind sharing their city with the tourists who'd flocked their to experience Christmas in Paris for themselves just this once. Nearly everyone seemed to have a lighter heart this time of year, and it was infectious. They'd set out at dusk, so by the time they reached the Champs-Elysees, the seemingly millions of lights had the night sky aglow. Enjolras couldn't help but steal glances at Grantaire, who was glowing almost brighter than the lights. He obviously loved this time of year, which came as something of a surprise to Enjolras. But it was written all over his face, the way he smiled and excitedly pointed out this light display or that Christmas scene in a storefront window. And every time Enjolras tried to surreptitiously slide his eyes over to Grantaire to see the wonder light up his face, Grantaire was already doing to same to him. They'd both look away and laugh and their fingers would twine just a bit tighter, and around the sixth time it happened Grantaire rolled his eyes and nudged Enjolras' shoulder with his own.

Eventually, though, the cold started to get to them. The snow hadn't been much to speak of, enough to dust the ground and stick to it and the ledges of buildings and the light-laden branches of the bare trees, but the chill of it clung fiercely to the air. Enjolras couldn't feel his fingers and when Grantaire offered to buy him _le chocolat chaud_ and maybe a few macarons since he'd been such a trooper, Enjolras jumped at the chance to get out of the cold for a bit.

They ducked into a small, crowded café, the first they found, and only then let go of each other's hand to try to warm their own up. Enjolras smiled almost shyly as Grantaire took his two hands in his and rubbed them, keeping his eyes on Enjolras' face as he gently blew on his frozen fingers to heat them up. Little things like that still took him by surprise, the way R could be so sweet and intimate and didn't seem to care when and where he was. It made Enjolras want to reciprocate, which was new, too.

He hadn't often made time for relationships, and he couldn't remember the last time he had an actual steady boyfriend. Even the term 'steady boyfriend' made Enjolras want to cringe. That's why he was so nervous with Grantaire. Because for the first time in a long time he _wanted_ this but wasn't sure he knew how to _do_ this. It helped that Grantaire seemed just as unsure and nervous, his fingers sometimes seeming to tremble as they hesitantly reached for Enjolras' hand, never making the first move without seeking permission with either an imploring look or outright asking. But so far, even with small bumps and plenty of arguments along the way, things were working out better than Enjolras had expected.

So even though public displays of affection had once made him want to instinctively recoil, he reached up as the line shuffled closer to the cashier, gently brushing snowflakes that hadn't yet melted out of Grantaire's hair. Enjolras' smile matched his as they stepped forward to place their orders. They paid and moved to find a space to sit, Grantaire grabbing Enjolras' hand to dart over to a table in the front window as it miraculously opened up. Enjolras began the process of shedding his outerwear as Grantaire did the same, first removing his coat and hanging it over the back of his chair. He looked up as he noticed Grantaire standing still, glancing up at the top of the window sill. And smiling. Enjolras looked up and actually groaned. Mistletoe, really?

Grantaire wasn't deterred, the groan eliciting an endearingly crooked grin. _it's tradition, you know_ , he said, and Enjolras just narrowed his eyes at him, shaking his head. Something about the intended playfulness about the look must've escaped him, though, because he suddenly looked abashed and Grantaire just shrugged. _but you don't have to_. He started to take off his coat and the faded smile made a pang of guilt shoot through Enjolras' chest. They'd had such a lovely evening and he hadn't meant to deflate Grantaire. He was still trying to figure out how not to do that, as a simple look or a few words could swing Grantaire's mood into darkness.

The solution to this particular instance came to Enjolras easily enough. Grantaire settled in his chair, his scarf still wound around his neck, and Enjolras did the same. He reached out and grabbed hold of the tails of the dark green scarf, catching Grantaire by surprise (if his wide eyes were anything to go by), and Enjolras tugged him across the small table. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Grantaire's lips, unsuccessfully fighting off a blush as the patrons of the café noticed and burst into short applause and a few catcalls. Enjolras sat back and grinned at a still-awestruck Grantaire, whose mouth was agape and his eyes were fixed on Enjolras.

He started to unwind his own blood-red scarf and just shrugged, smiling as he reminded Grantaire that _it's tradition, you know_. The smile that blossomed over Grantaire’s face warmed Enjolras even more than the steaming cups of cocoa that arrived at their table a few moments later. Enjolras didn’t even mind when Grantaire held out a macaron for him to bite. The streets of Paris weren’t the only things infused with the holiday spirit, it seemed.


End file.
